


What is a snake to a dragon?

by Precipice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, and not in a fun way either, merlin as a proto-dumbledore, slytherin as a proto-grindelwald, wizards be weird, xenophobia xenophobia everywhere, ‘might is right’ as the basis of traditional wizard values
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 11:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18119495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Precipice/pseuds/Precipice
Summary: “We learn much behind the safe walls of Hogwarts, but what we fail to learn is also much, staying cooped up in its towers and dungeons.” The younger wizard did not face his former teacher while speaking. “We have spent so much time and effort hiding ourselves, we have forgotten that there's a world just outside of ours, just as rich as ours...”





	What is a snake to a dragon?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hokova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hokova/gifts).



> Dedicated to my favorite Storyteller~

If he had to be honest, the wizard had expected worse.

 _Much_ worse.

This castle was to Hogwarts what a muddy puddle was to a mountain lake – its towers were mere huts compared to the abodes of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, nevermind the sky-scraping height of the Observatory; its walls were so thin, there would probably be nothing left of them after a couple of centuries and a couple of sieges; and overall, its entire structure was far too simple to conceive, far too easy to build… far too small to contain the _legend_ that was growing in its court _._

Then again, he supposed, this was to be expected of a people whose power was in their hands and their legs and their backs.

The wizard imagined that the valley looked much better in the summer, when the blue skies and the green lands would lock this _pebble_ of a castle in a warm embrace, thus rendering its appearance quaint rather than pathetic. But he was here _now_ , and _now_ was autumn – mist-bound, frost-tipped autumn. And though his spells kept him dry and warm, nothing could be done about the icy shard of hatred and revulsion that was lodged between his heart and his stomach.

He had Apparated on a nearby hill, from where he spent some time observing the valley, taking sullen notice of the cobweb of well-trodden paths that branched out of its gates in each and every direction.

How many more such pebbles were there, anyway, strewn across the land?

A sudden gust of wind crinkled his nose. He could swear he could _smell_ them already, their sweat and their smoke and their squalor…  

… the _Muggles_.

Salazar Slytherin began his slow, reluctant descent.

*** * ***

The soldiers standing guard at the main gate took one look at his richly embroidered robes and exchanged  the briefest of glances before touching the rims of their helmets in a slight bow – a gesture of respect that was as deserved as it was unexpected, if still grudgingly accepted. They tried to ignore the wand tucked into his belt not unlike a dagger, its owner's long fingers resting gingerly on its handle, and he in turn pretended not to notice the spears in their hands and the swords on their hips. Silence stretched between them, as the Muggles dared not speak and the wizard did not wish to.

Luckily for everyone, they only had to tolerate each other’s company for the length of a dozen heartbeats or so, as the Heralding Charm had rung as soon as the wizard’s dragonhide boots had touched the frozen soil of Camelot’s lands – he had sensed its magic as clearly as he now saw its caster. And even though thirty autumns had passed since they had last seen each other, Slytherin had no trouble recognizing his first and best apprentice as he rushed through the courtyard, towards the gate and towards him.

There were grey strands in Merlin's beard and hair, both of which were now long enough to sweep past his waist; Slytherin wryly noticed that the bo… the _man_ had finally gotten into the habit of combing them, and that he had learned to secure them with strategically tied leather stri… no, with _ribbons_ , with _green ribbons_. Slytherin would have nodded in silent approval, but the more he saw, the less he liked. Merlin’s robe was also green, but far too plain and roughly spun for both Merlin’s position and Slytherin's taste, with sleeves that were rolled up to above the elbows and yet still stained, which was… confusing, to say the least. There was a jittery rhythm to Merlin’s gait, as well as a trimness to his waist and a pallor to his skin, none of which befitted the most esteemed advisor of not one but _two_ kings – Muggle kings, yes, but kings all the same.

And, worst of all, Merlin was _smiling_.

At the Muggles, who prudently stayed out of his way but who also smiled back.

At Slytherin, as if their last meeting had not ended with both of them reaching for their wands, their faces pale with anger and their throats hoarse with rage.

Suddenly, Slytherin was not so sure as to whom the guards had actually bowed – the wizard, or the wizards -  _their_ wizard’s – old teacher.

*** * ***

Merlin's quarters were a familiar mess – his personal table back at Hogwarts writ large - which was to be expected, as now he had an entire tower at his complete disposal.

Slytherin was uncertain as to how he should feel about this arrangement. On one hand, it meant that Merlin received at least _some_ part of the tribute that he deserved as a wizard; on the other hand, however, it meant that Merlin might be unwilling to leave a place of worship for a place of work.

“It’s no Hogwarts, but it’s still good,” Merlin uttered, as if in response to Slytherin’s thoughts, and waved his wand at the general direction of the heavy curtains. “Good enough for me, at least.”

Bright light and fresh air – most vital necessities for any potioneer – rushed inside through the four tall windows, illuminating this realm of chaos and subduing its cacophony of smells.

Slytherin looked around as discreetly as he could. The ceiling was rendered practically invisible by the veritable field of dried herbs that hung from the wooden beams.The high shelves between the windows seemed to be insufficient for the magical treasury that Merlin had managed to accumulate over the years – dozens of books and scrolls, hundreds of boxes and tools, thousands of bottles and pots. The single long table trembled beneath the hammering of three heavy pestles, hard at work in their deep mortars, while three large cauldrons mumbled in the fireplace. Slytherin could not help but notice that the flames beneath the cauldrons assumed strange shapes that resembled dancing women more than anything else – flailing braids, waving arms, twirling skirts.

How _fanciful_ …

… and how _typical_.

Merlin laughed quietly when he saw the old wizard’s eyes narrow at the sight of the enchanted flames – nothing had changed, at least not there.

“You know me, Master.” There was a boyish quality to his voice, still, despite the silver in his hair and the twin wrinkles between his eyebrows. “I cannot live without beauty.”

With a huff, Slytherin looked away from the fireplace and around for a place to sit.

Merlin was quick to conjure an extra chair for his guest – sturdy and plain, with comfortable armrests and soft cushions…

… and vastly different from the thrones he would create back at Hogwarts – gilded sculptures of carved wood, decorated with precious gems and draped with rare furs.

Slytherin took the chair all the same.

Another flick of Merlin’s wand, and refreshments were summoned from the heavy chest by the door – food and drink, crockery and cutlery. One knife made quick work of some wrinkled apples, cutting them into presentable slices, while another dealt with a sizeable block of cheese. There were also thin strips of dried meat and small round loaves of bread. 

"Care for some wine?" A goblet flew up to Slytherin's face all the same and he had no choice but to take it. "I'll be with you in a moment. The potions need stirring."

Merlin remembered to use a different ladle for each cauldron, but forgot to put on protective gloves. Slytherin wondered whether to scol... _remind_ him of the importance of proper equipment in potion-making, but eventually decided that it was not his place to do so, not anymore.

"What are you preparing?" he asked, more out of courtesy rather than curiosity, as he raised the goblet to his lips. The wine smelled good, tasted even better. Wine fit for a wizard.

Merlin sniffed at the steam rising from the first cauldron. He made a face, then summoned a small box from a nearby shelf. Three generous pinches of its content was what the potion seemed to be lacking. More stirring followed.

"Wound-Cleaning and Blood-Replentishing."

Slytherin nodded, even though – or perhaps because – Merlin could not see him. Just what the quite-often-quite-literally-bloody Muggles needed.

"And a slight variation of the Pepper-up. The omens are promising a harsh winter. And this should keep us all warm, or at least warmer than we would be if we only had our fires and furs to rely on."

Slytherin had to interrupt, or at least steer Merlin's habitual babbling in another direction:

"Did the Muggles ask for these specific potions?"

"No, not really." Merlin's voice sounded distant, muffled by concentration as he checked the second potion. "Though the King sometimes gives suggestions..."

Slytherin’s wand-hand, which also held the goblet, tried to roll itself into a fist on its own volition.

"... and those can be rather entertaining, sometimes; but he means well, so I try to be patient... "

The wine in the goblet began to boil.

"... rather strongly reminds me of Master Gryffindor, really ..."

The goblet fell to the floor with a clang - whether it was thrown or dropped, nobody knew for certain. The hot wine hissed when it touched the cold stones.

Slytherin glared at the reddened skin on his palm. He wanted to, needed to shout, to scream, to say anything – whatever was necessary for his best apprentice to _listen to him_.

Just like he used to.

He let Merlin dab some healing ointment onto his burnt palm – something that Merlin had no doubt prepared specifically for the use of Muggles, judging by his own scarred hands. The thought did little to soothe the older wizard’s indignation.

"They're making good use of you here, I see." Slytherin forced himself to look at Merlin, or rather at what little was left of the man he once knew by that name.

Merlin did not ignore the barb. His eyes remained focused on the injury, but when his nimble fingers prodded at the largest blister, it hurt.

"They need me here.” Another prod. “More than anywhere else."

Slytherin wondered whether Merlin did not know or did not care about what had happened in Hogwarts… _w_ _ith_ Hogwarts. He realized that both alternatives were equally tragic.

Merlin, the brightest wizard of his generation, who was now Merlin with the prematurely graying hair, Merlin who smiled at peasants, Merlin who coddled soldiers and who probably bowed to one...

… Merlin who should have stayed in Hogwarts, Merlin who should have taken Slytherin's place.

Slytherin watched his palm heal while Merlin tended to his last potion - a handful of dust from one mortar, half a bottle from the topmost shelf, careful stirring lest an errant drop fell into the flames.

Ten, twenty, thirty years ago, Slytherin would have had the patience to explain, to cajole, to persuade; but _then_ he would have also had Hogwarts, and the security of his dungeons, and the confidence of his youth. He would have had Gryffindor’s trust and Ravenclaw’s respect and Hufflepuff’s fondness. But that had been then, and this was now, and _now_ all he had were aching bones and a bitter heart, and the sour taste of failure on his tongue as the sole wizard among his three hundred apprentices who could stand up to Gryffindor’s arrogance _and_ Ravenclaw’s wit _and_ Hufflepuff’s tenacity was apparently too busy brewing Pepper-up Potion. 

For the _Muggles_.

"You've spent decades among them,” Slytherin murmured, almost as quietly as if he were talking to himself, “among their wars and diseases and petty struggles.” A ladle clacked as it was hung on its designated loop above the fireplace. ”How much longer before you realize that you're wasting your skills and your life playing the role of a wet-nurse to these… these _animals_ …"

Merlin’s startled chuckle interrupted the old wizard’s tired tirade. The chuckle grew into a proper laughter as he returned to the table, to the chair across from Slytherin’s.

“I’m glad you find your situation to be amusing,” Slytherin hissed as he reached for the forgotten food.

Merlin shook his head, his smile receding into something small and secret. One of his hands moved to lie on his chest, upon his heart.

“Not to all of them, and not exactly a wet-nurse either.”

Slytherin almost dropped the apple slice he was about to eat.

“What are you saying?”

Merlin sighed as the soft expression on his mouth reached his eyes as well, the fine wrinkles around them suddenly growing deep with shadows.

“One of them is mine.”

A moment of silence followed. The pestles stilled in their mortars, as if suddenly afraid to draw attention to themselves. The cauldrons kept gurgling in the fireplace, but they were far too busy to take note of anything other than themselves.

Again, a hiss:

“You _didn’t_.”

Again, a chuckle:

“I didn’t. But he is still mine, because it was I who created him, in a way.”

Merlin told the story as it had happened – two mighty lords, one unfortunate woman, and enough Polyjuice potion to last a whole night; war, death, and marriage; a child, a sword, and a prophecy.

Slytherin could only stare at his ex-apprentice, disbelieving. It was one thing to tend to one’s lessers, be they Elves or Muggles, but to humor them so…

He tossed the apple slice back to the plate, his already poor appetite completely spoiled, and tried to focus on the parts of the story that were both comprehensible and important.

“You mean to tell me” Slytherin began, trying to find a familiar tree in this forest of nonsense, “that the young king hangs onto your every word like a child hangs onto their father’s hand…  and you still let _him_ rule?”

Merlin shook his head with something oddly akin to sad wistfulness glowing in his eyes.

“Even if I should live among the Muggles for a thousand years, I will never understand them as they should be understood.” Merlin had not built his cottage in the forest – not yet, at least – but there was no doubt that he loved to frolic beneath its branches’ shade. “It has to do with magic, I suspect. There are times when I try to explain something or other to Arthur –and mind you, he knows more about magic than any Muggle has ever known – and still, it feels like describing colors to a blind man…”

“Who is Arthur?”

“The king.”

“ _Your_ king?”

“ _My_ king.”

“Hah.”

“… I tell him, for example, I tell him that I can turn someone – say, an enemy of his – into a nice fat rat, and see which one of the castle’s cats will catch him first; and Arthur tells me that _I can’t do that_. And I assure him that _I can_ , that _I am fully capable of it_ ; and then he starts claiming _it is not right_.” Merlin’s face began losing its somber expression bit by bit, every word and the obviously fond memory behind it chipping away at his already uncharacteristic solemnity. “And I ask him, what does _being right_ have to do with _being able_.”

Slytherin could not argue with Merlin’s logic, but this _Arthur_ fellow apparently could. The old wizard would have been almost impressed with the Muggle’s nerve, if it had not been for the absurdity of it all.

“Interesting. What other matters do you discuss with your king? Do you argue about which shoe goes on which foot? Does he ask you to prove to him that water is wet?”

Merlin did not respond. Instead, he reached into one of his pockets and produced a sharp-edged piece of rock and an odd-shaped piece of metal. He gripped the metal with a firm hand and struck it against rock.

A spark erupted – as small as a flea and as bright as a star.

“I had no idea that stone and steel could birth fire, not until I started living among the Muggles.” Merlin brought the strange tools as close as he could to Slytherin’s disgusted face. “Not every type of stone can make fire – only this one. They call it ‘flint’. In a world full of stones, the Muggles actually managed to find the only one that makes fire.”

Slytherin’s eyes narrowed, until they fell shut. He opened his mouth to demand that Merlin get that rubbish away from his face, but what came out of it instead was:

“What is ‘steel’?”

“It’s… it’s a type of substance, I think? The Muggles make it… well, I’m not quite sure I understand the process myself, and I’m yet to actually observe it with my own eyes, but apparently one of the steps is _melting iron_. Can you imagine that? Melted iron! With no magic whatsoever!”

Slytherin forced his eyes open. They met Merlin’s – a forest fire versus a summer storm.

The fire soon went out. The storm reigned.

Merlin straightened up, pocketing his toys. When he spoke again, it was to issue a quiet demand:

“Why are you here?”

Slytherin stood up, fixing his robes. Another battle lost. Another hope crushed. If he had learned anything in the past few years, it was when and how to retreat.

“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

Merlin, however, seemed determined to get to the bottom of the cauldron. He stood up as well, the two chairs disappearing into thin air now that they were no longer needed.

“Why aren’t you at Hogwarts?”

“I left.”

“You left.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because of Gryffindor.”

“He’s won, then?”

“He’s had his way.”

“Muggleborns in Hogwarts?”

“As of next year.”

“Good.”

At some point, the three pestles had finished their work. Merlin waved at three clay pots to fly over from their shelf to the table in order to collect the mortars’ powdery contents. Another gesture towards the fireplace shushed the flames into embers – the potions needed to cool down ever so slowly. Merlin went to check one last time, still, the way Slytherin had taught him – with a clean ladle and a clear nose.

“We learn much behind the safe walls of Hogwarts, but what we fail to learn is also much, staying cooped up in its towers and dungeons.” The younger wizard did not face his former teacher while speaking. “We have spent so much time and effort hiding ourselves, we have forgotten that there's a world just outside of ours, just as rich as ours...”

Slytherin turned away. He was tired. He was so tired. He headed towards the door, eager to leave this man, this castle, this place.

And then he noticed the map.

There, beneath the western window, stood a fourth, much smaller table that he had not noticed upon entering, whose surface was covered by a singe large scroll of the finest parchment he had ever seen. It rolled itself up demurely when Slytherin approached to take a proper look, but that first glance was enough for the old wizard to recognize the shape of Britannia – the freckles of its settlements, the stains of its lakes, the veins of its rivers…

… the lack of borders.

*** * ***

What was Camelot to Hogwarts?

Nothing. A pebble to a mountain. A puddle to a lake. A lizard to a dragon.

What was Britannia to Hogwarts?

Everything. The blood to the heart. The soil to the tree. The ocean to the island.  

Merlin was no longer Salazar Slytherin’s best apprentice.

Merlin was now Salazar Slytherin’s better.


End file.
